Baking bread

I pour out the soft dough that has risen beautifully on the counter above the roaring dishwasher.  I carefully spread the flour on the handcrafted wooden board given me by the ex husband, too big, rarely used, but suited to the task.  The dough is workable and easy and well made.  A recipe taught to me by my mother, and her also to my daughter.  I feel a sense of pleasure at the simple task of rolling it out and spiraling it into the bread pan, and then sprinkling cinnamon sugar on the other half.  A pot of chili bubbles on the stove.  I feel a sense of worthiness at this small accomplishment.

I think on a text that came to me in the dark as I read, feeling the hard edge of it, grateful that my grand daughter was not there to see me upset.  Grateful too of her requests and our ritual of listening to chants as we lie down to sleep before her mother gets to my home.  I respond with hurt and anger.

But I guess I deserve its brutal arrow into my heart.  I have worked to soften my heart, to make it flexible, nourishing and open, it is so crusted and scarred.  I am not perfect. I know this must be news.  I say things sometimes that are ignorant, without having an ignorant heart.  Do things sometimes that later I regret.  I have not spent my life keeping up on the lastest terminology, or frozen in my understanding until heated words thaw out the treasure of my love.

But I am not mean spirited, nor do I wish to be cold, hard or ignorant.

I am so sorry, please forgive me, thank you for your forgiveness, I want nothing more than to love you.




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